Dissipation
by sapphireswimming
Summary: He thought he had an understanding with his ghost half. The ectoplasm would stay inside him. He'd stay at least half alive... For surelysilly


**Partly inspired by the D. Gray-Man fic _Finding Loss in Victory_ by liketolaugh, where everyone's Innocence turns on them once there are no more akuma to fight. I'm sure there's also some of Chaos Dragon's _A Definition of Bad_ in here as well.  
**

 **And this is late, but, happy birthday to surelysilly, because nothing says HAPPY BIRTHDAY like a dissolving Danny.**

 **Body horror / gore warnings?**

* * *

 **Dissipation**

February 11, 2016

 _for surelysilly_

* * *

He's lucky he doesn't crash into the window, splintering it into a thousand shards of glass with a crash that would bring his parents running as soon as they heard. But somehow he manages to hold onto his lingering intangibility long enough to push through it to the safety of his room.

Topples down heavily onto the carpet, his shaking arms doing almost nothing to break his fall as he crashes to the ground. Limbs tangle behind him, splayed painfully and awkwardly but he almost can't bring himself to care.

Wants to lay there, prone, face down on his bedroom floor, not worrying about anything but sucking in his next breath.

Except that he can't. He knows- knows he has to move, if he wants to ever care about anything again.

Not safe. He needs-

He tries to push up from the ground once, twice, his arms burning at the strain, refusing to hold him up for more than a few seconds. Danny grits his teeth, tastes the acid in the back of his throat, and braces himself to try again.

He pushes up on trembling limbs, straightening his arms by sheer force, grimacing at the sick squelching noise beneath him as he tries to peel himself away from the carpet.

Pointedly doesn't look down as he forces himself forward.

Hand over hand, he crawls the endless stretch to the door. Trying not to slip when the knees of his jeans slide forward through the spot he'd been lying in.

He tries not to think about what that means.

After long pained minutes, he finally makes it to the end of the room, stretching out a wobbling hand to push the door closed as soon as his fingertips make contact. He drags himself far enough to lean against the wall with a loud thud, panting as he all but collapses.

A moment passes and he reaches up to blindly fumble with the lock. His fingers are clumsy, and the doorknob slippery. It takes a while for the lock to catch with a soft _snick_ and then he falls back against the door, sighing in relief.

Then wishes he hadn't. The rattling deep in his chest makes it hard to breathe.

Tastes like blood and acid, hot and thick and trying to climb up his throat.

Bad. This is-

He needs help but. He looks up hazily at the desk where he'd hastily dropped his backpack after school, homework sliding out onto his keyboard, and knows his cell phone's lying beside it. Out of reach.

A whole four feet away.

He snorts and abruptly chokes on it. It comes up his throat, gagging him before it continues gushing up, sending fire through his nose before it trickles down his face. He spits it out.

The fingertips he vaguely presses to his nose come back green.

He grimaces, and blinks at the desk again. Might as well be four miles… he's not going to make it.

He falls back into the corner, heavily sinking down as his head, hands, feet feel like lead, weighing him down until he thinks he may never move again. For a moment he wonders if he can just. Sit here. Ride this out, let it pass. Maybe he'll be okay.

He's always been okay.

But this is different. And he knows it, feels it in his bones, in the fire in his gut, and the screaming in his core, the raging waves pounding in his ears and against his skull.

No one's coming and- He needs to. Move.

But easier said than done when his head is underwater and his arms won't move at all. He's not sure his legs are still there, and can't seem to summon up the energy to open his eyes and check. Not sure he'd want to anyway.

Hurts too much to move. Hurts too much to sit here.

He's sinking, falling- or floating away? He's-

Hurts to think. But he knows- he has to-

Help. He needs-

He'll die here, fade to nothing and drain away if no one comes.

Just one call to Tucker, Sam…

Even the fruit loop-

If he calls then he can rest easy until they come. Just one phone call. The protector of Amity Park can make a phone call.

But the phone's on the desk and he's on the floor and he doesn't see how he can-

Has to.

Blinking, he forces his eyes open and tries to focus. But his vision's hazy, swimming in and out. And oozy, starting to turn green in one eye now. He blinks again and something thick starts welling up, spilling out onto his cheek.

He's not crying. He's-

The ectoplasm clings to the hand he drags down his face. He stares at it, flexes his fingers and doesn't know what to make of the drops forming in the creases, the cracked knuckles, welling up along the lines.

"Sorry," he rasps, ignoring the slime dribbling out of the corners of his mouth as he stares at the green trails dripping down his arm. They fall slowly. Drip, dripping-

"Not my fault," he whispers to his hand, to the ectoplasm leaking out of him, desperate for it to hear him. "I didn't-"

 _Ask for this. Mean for this to happen. Want you…_

There's so much he could say, but he's not sure what he means anymore. Not that it matters. It's not listening to what he's saying. Or not saying. And nothing would change even if it did.

There's a puddle beside him, seeping outward slowly as it has nowhere to go.

Not much time now. He has to-

His chest seizes up, burning and freezing at the same time as something begins to rise inside him. It pulls him up up up and there's nothing he can do but follow it until he's on his knees, arms outstretched, head thrown back with a strangled cry.

He can't breathe as this thing in his chest swells against his ribs until he thinks they'll crack out of his chest with the sheer pressure of it.

His room is bright now, and he realizes in shock that he's the reason why. His chest- his core is the reason why. It's glowing, burning so brightly that he can't stand to look at it and he shuts his eyes against it, squeezes them tighter for the pain because he can't stand it, doesn't know how he'll survive this, doesn't think he can possibly-

Something bursts, rips, and the light suddenly dies out.

Danny's left gasping, struggling to get air into his lungs.

He's still on his knees but he knows it won't last much longer. There's nothing to hold him up and he can't-

The cell phone is there on the desk, just a foot or two away. It's his only chance and reaches out a hand to snag it as he falls forward, crashing into a drawer, his desk chair, arms tangling up in it as it spins before he slips off, lands on the carpet once more.

There are already drops of bright green splattering to the floor.

He blinks through the stars, realizes the phone is just inches away from his hand. So close but everything's too heavy to move. Everything is rough and jagged against him and the world feels so far away.

Breath fails him. His lungs won't work, won't pull in any air. There's a sick empty rattling and then his mouth is filled with ectoplasm, coating his teeth, trickling onto the carpet.

He stretches out to grab his phone with numb fingers, dragging it to him slowly. Painfully.

He finds the crack and flips it open but his hands are a mess, leave oozing slimy streaks of green down the screen. He can barely see the keys and his fingers slide off uselessly when he tries to press down.

Coughing up ectoplasm now. Maybe blood too.

His vision's darkening, the world fading away into misty grey colored only with green, bright, sickly, so very familiar-

He's not surprised when he starts jackknifing, body jerking and convulsing uncontrollably, squelching in the pool of ectoplasm, rubbing it deep into the carpet. It won't ever come out.

The phone is there but useless in his hands, unable to dial a number, unable to even feel it anymore.

He can't feel anything. He can't-

And then he stills, eyes glassy and staring as the last of the ectoplasm leaks out of him, draining out onto the floor and spreading, spreading-

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 **If you need aftermath, puppetmaster55 wrote a sequel - _Bad Morning_. Links on my profile.**


End file.
